


Undone

by ErisYumi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Other, POV Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-01 07:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisYumi/pseuds/ErisYumi
Summary: End of year 6 and 7 retold from Draco's point of view





	1. The curtain lifts and all that stands before you is vile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while now, I've wanted to tell Draco's side of the story. Because the books focus primarily on Harry's point of view, we see a rather biased version of Draco's character, and I wanted to do justice to the brief glimpses we see of his struggle. 
> 
> This will be a series of one-shots retelling Draco's story from the end of Year 6 till around the end of Year 7.

It was then that it all shattered forever.

It had been a gradual process; this whole year, up until the summer holidays in his home, and even before, when an owl came bearing the late news of his father's arrest, it had creeped up on him ever since, that sense of dread had descended upon him and had not parted with him ever since, hadn't it? And now it made its way inside him, coursing through him and making him tremble with terror at what had happened, making him tremble with the shock of how brutally he had been ripped away from all that was his childhood. 

As Draco watched the broken figure of the headmaster falling past the balustrade, horror struck him and the awful realisation fell upon him: Dumbledore was dead. He had not truly felt it, up until now, how the headmaster had been part of Hogwarts as Draco had known it.

Now that he stood at the end, the truth he had been burying all year, all summer long resurfaced, searing him with all the strength and energy he had spared covering it up and denying it, searing him as it made its way to the forefront of his mind; He had known he would fail, and he had never wanted this mission. He had never wanted to be _chosen_. So many times, so many times, he had repeated the word '_chosen_' like a protective charm, to calm him and reaffirm his resolve. Each of his failures had fractured it, reminding him of the truth galloping back at him, until he had stood there, in the Astronomy Tower, and barely any of it had crawled to him, not enough, not nearly enough to steady his wand and mind and cast the curse. 

He felt a hand seizing him by the collar, the gesture urgent and hurried, and as he obeyed the pressure, he saw Professor Snape rallying the others, him alongside them and bidding them leave the castle at once. And so he followed. This was still where he belonged, wasn't it? With his family? And with these... people. Except as he thought of it, nothing but disgust crawled to him, pooling in his stomach. He had never liked any of them, had never wanted their help or company. It had felt grand, at first, all these ancient names seemingly coming alive from all the stories and rumors, joining his life and walking by his side. The Lestranges were almost revered in his house, one, sister to his mother, the other an old friend of his father, he had continuously heard of them growing up, and now...

He looked back to Bellatrix, running rampant and giggling almost hysterically, and it felt like something in him was collapsing further, as if he had been emptied of all consistency as he watched the crazed witch wreck the Great Hall. Glass shattered and shards flew in all directions, chairs and seats collapsed onto tables which cracked irregularly in their center, leaving them wobbling and broken, and finally he saw the great hourglasses of each house break open, the vibrant emerald of Slytherin scattering upon the floor and mixing with the flow of rubies, sapphires and diamonds. In disgust and horror, he sighted Greyback speeding to the flood of precious gems and rashly picking a handful of them before shoving them in a pocket. 

"Draco, hurry!"

Exerting pressure on his arm, this time, Professor Snape pushed him forward, his eyes tearing away from the ignoble theft and from Bellatrix stomping on the Ravenclaw's table, from the Hall in which he had shared so much with others since he had entered Hogwarts, from the place that had been a second home. And so he followed along still. Where was he to go if he did not return to his family? What would Father say when he'd return home? And worst of all... What would _he_ say? Would he simply flick his wand lazily, and hush him out of existence?

They had stepped past the entrance now, and he heard, he heard him call. 

It was_ Potter_. 

Draco no longer knew what to think of him. From the depths of the loss he was feeling, everything else he had felt had been extinguished. He remembered the beginning of his school year, the vicious anger he had felt at his father's imprisonment, all his vengeance plans and his ideas of triumph over Harry. But when he tilted his head to look back on the person who he thought was his nemesis, the conflicted animosity he had always felt had been emptied out of him. 

"Snape! He trusted you!"

And suddenly, ripping through him, he felt a sharp pang of longing. He wished for nothing more than to turn around, turn back, leave the Death Eaters, join all the students that would remain behind to mourn Dumbledore and crowd about his body and huddle together at the sight. Never before had he felt such a thin connection to the dark witches and wizards he was escaping the school grounds with, and never before had he thought so clearly that this was not his world. He did not belong with any of them. But in his mind's eye, he saw a pair of red eyes staring at him coldly, and with great effort, he tore his gaze away from Harry running at them.

There was a loud "_Bang!_" and turning around, Draco saw flames leaping onto the vaulted, pitch-black sky; Hagrid's hut had caught flames. For an instant, a hundred spiteful things came to mind, a hundred insults he had been throwing around for years, yet somehow, for the first time too, the words wouldn't pass his lips. He watched as Death Eaters sneered at the sight of the burning hut and Bellatrix dancing around it, hysterical sounds of glee still streaming out of her. He remembered his third year and the Hippogriff business and how elated he had been; Father had given him a slim smile and patted him on the shoulder, thanking Draco for bringing the matter to his attention and how swiftly the whole affair would be dealt with. Draco had beamed brightly, he remembered, he had felt a sense of pride he couldn't contain.

All he could feel now was revulsion at the sight of the Death Eaters and their enjoyment. He turned away and kept on.

Professor Snape pushed him before turning back and parrying hexes coming at him, and Draco reluctantly continued his helpless run, joining back the other Death Eaters scurrying away. He couldn't help glancing behind him, his longing slowing his steps and distracting him, and suddenly Bellatrix had waved her wand, a malicious grin upon her lips and Harry was groaning in visible agony, tossing and turning on the grass.

Draco almost lunched himself at her, he wanted to shout "_No!_" at Bellatrix, to tell her to stop! He had almost started at her, when the pair of red eyes blurred back to his mind and he froze mid-motion. Before Draco could have done anything, _at least that, if nothing else_, he thought, Professor Snape had already ended the curse with a vigorous flick of his wand.

"No!" Professor Snape yelled, anger plain on his face, "He belongs to the Dark Lord!"

And in a blur, they had all reached the gates of Hogwarts. Draco's stomach sunk further inside him, fear ran through him uncontrolled at the prospect of what would surely come to pass soon enough, and his horror intensified as they stepped outside the school grounds. He felt a firm pressure against his wrist, and with one final look upon the school he had loved, sunk into suffocating darkness.

— ✦ —

The walls of his home seemed blank, now.

It was the house he had spent his life in, the place that had shaped him, but now, all the joy he had known within these walls had been sucked out, replaced by this slithering figure calling Draco's home his headquarter, robbing him of the shards of his childhood and adolescence as he walked by, condescension aimed at the damage he caused with every step, with every piercing glare. 

Still in a frightened daze, Draco saw his mother rush at him, her hands reach his face and peer anxiously at him, and he could see in her eyes the voiceless question forming; Had he done it? He could do nothing more but return her gaze passively, and so she glanced at Snape for answers.

"It is done," announced Snape. 

Her eyes followed him as he walked further within the house, black cloak billowing behind him, and his mother hands dropped to his wrist, grabbing his hand as she followed after Snape. Bellatrix came to place herself at his mother's side, but his mother hardly paid any attention to her sister, and her eyes remained intently fixed against Snape's back.

The moment they had Apparated in front of the portal of his home, Snape had rolled his sleeve and pressed the tip of his wand against the Dark Mark, and as it had turned jet black, Draco had felt his inner forearm sear in pain. Stones had sunk inside his stomach, the moment was coming, he knew it.

It was not long until a tall, skeletally thin figure appeared in their great dining room led by Bellatrix, and Draco glimpsed the pair of red eyes he had so dreaded. His eyes immediately fell to the floor... yet something else was in the room, the sound of something heavy gliding against the floorboard reached him, and he tilted his head, avoiding the snake altogether as well, as if a single glance would petrify him.

"Ah, well done, Severus."

The voice had hissed in the room, almost a whisper. He heard, more than he saw, the figure glide almost like his snake did towards Snape.

"You honour me, My Lord," The words he spoke did not fit his intonation, somehow.

Then the figure was gliding again, this time in a more deliberate, almost leisured way. And Draco's dread intensified, as he understood that figure was advancing towards him.

"I do wish I could say the same of you, Draco." 

Almost immediately, Draco regained a more dignified posture, yet try he did, his gaze refused to meet the Dark Lord's. The atmosphere had become opaque, tense, as if the very air had frozen. He could not think of what he could say, and before he could muster any words, the Dark Lord continued, "A shame, truly. I had such high hopes for you... What might poor Lucius say, once he is out of Azkaban?"

The blow seemed to implode within him. From scrapes of memories and conversations with his mother, he dredged up what little he could; "I will not fail you again, My Lord."

"I expect not," His tone might have been clear and silent as a whisper, Draco still could hear the nigh imperceptible menacing inflection, sending an ominous warning his way; "_If you do, I will end you._" Draco swallowed hard, his gaze still resolutely upon the ground.

Once again, as the Dark Lord gave empty congratulations to Snape, it dawned on Draco how he had never cared, not truly. All these stories he had heard, these fantasies of wizards recapturing their rightful place in the hierarchy, triumphing over muggles, these non-magical people who in their ignoble ways had forced wizards into hiding. All this so-called glory, all his father's stories were blurry inside his mind, he tried to summon them to examine what he had found so captivating back then, but nothing came to manifeste the excitement he had once. What had he rejoiced over? Again, he looked back, forced the memories back, and all he could remember, was himself, seated on his father's lap and hearing about days which had taken place before his birth, days where his father was at his height, and all Draco could picture was himself, a qualified wizard at last standing side by side to his father, vested in the colors of the house they had both been in, both covered in glory and united in their goal.

His throat tightened and his eyes burned, and all the memories could choke him if he continued to reminisce.


	2. The curtain lifts and all that stands before you is vile

Draco furtively stepped down the lengthy, oaken flight of stairs.

The voices which had driven him out of his bedroom resounded louder against the walls, now. He recognised his mother's voice, clear and high in the house's smaller sitting room, though he would need to approach further if he were to understand any of the words which were being flown about. 

"... This cannot stand anymore!"

Draco continued to descend down the stairs.

"We've no choice but to carry on as it was!"

His father's voice answered the stream that had come out of his mother in an almost hushed voice, but his tone was layered with distress.

"You have no idea how it was, safely tucked away in Azkaban! You do not know—"

"Safely?" And Draco could almost see his father's eyes narrow. "_Safely?_"

"You were absent! You did not have to feel his wrath like Draco did!" His mother's voice was almost shrill, and Draco instinctively let his gaze cast about; he'd use a spell to verify the house was quite empty, but he did not dare reveal himself. Anyhow, it'd have been sheer madness for his parents not to have made certain no one else was present.

Draco had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and quietly continued towards the sitting room. 

"What do you propose happens? We simply decide to leave?" Though his father chuckled, his laughter was mirthless and caustic. "Narcissa, he will end us all!"

Stammering sounds were all that resounded for an instant, then he heard his mother's voice, no higher than a whisper; "We will wait out this storm," her tone became more urgent, then. "Lucius, _look at me_. The odds are surely astronomical, but he fell once, he may fall again."

Draco was traversing the corridor, his steps as deliberate, as silent as he could. Silence had fell in the room, now, and he wondered whether his father would ever give an answer.

"You speak of treason, if we are caught—" 

Had he not be so close, Draco would not have heard the words seething out of his father's mouth. The sound of his steps were snuffed out by the heavy carpet leading to the room, and he pressed himself against the wall before the sitting room as cautiously as possible.

"We will not, because we will do nothing," his mother's voice had fallen to a whisper as well. "We will lower our heads and play the faithful servants, and wait out the war, this regime. We shall see how events unfold, surely something will happen..."

Draco tilted his head just an inch, enough to glimpse a sliver of his parents' frames.

"And if not, we simply shall have to use the first opportunity to return to his good graces. One thing is certain; our family comes before him."

"Narcissa..."

He heard choked gasps, and realised belatedly his mother had begun crying. The sounds felt as though some invisible fist was punching a hole inside his stomach.

And so Draco stepped into the room. He found his parents locked in an embrace, his father's arms around his mother's and their hands in each other's. At the sight of him, his mother let out a gasp before she outstretched her arm towards him, voicelessly beckoning at him to join them. 

Draco sensed a first impulse to join them, yet somehow, for just an instant, he remained where he stood, observing his parents just as they stared at him encouragingly. 

"Draco." 

His mother gave him an almost pleading look, then, and finally Draco moved from his spot. His parents' arms encircled him as he reached them, his forehead leaning against theirs.

They were of a same height, now. Instinctively, he realised his eyes had slipped shut. Draco had never felt a child more than in this moment.

— ✦ —

Though his father had returned home, Draco had never felt such sorrow coursing the walls of his home. Just as his father had returned, the great breakout orchestrated to swell the Dark Lord's ranks reunited Draco with the old and new; Death Eaters he had already been acquainted with returned to his life, and along them came those he had never met, ancient names who had finally escaped Azkaban after decades of imprisonment, and they now all lurked about the place which had been his home.

With a lazy twist of his fingers, Draco lifted the curtain to gaze outside the window; the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky all shades of pink and orange. The sight made him shudder; A meeting was to be held at day's end, and his family was, naturally, to be part of it. The comings and goings had become endless, a great number of Death Eaters had begun pouring into the manor, and more still came. His only relief was that the _host_ had yet to arrive.

Letting the curtain go, Draco made his way to the common dining area. He had outfitted himself in a manner which befitted his pure-blood status, father had murmured so with a torn expression painted over his face. Draco had only briefly stared at his jet-black robes emblazoned with his family's insignia, silver elegantly threading its length. He had barely recognised the sight of himself in the looking glass; Though he was wearing the clothes which had always been meant for him, it was as if he looked at the outlines of a stranger, as if his silhouette was not quite his own and he had been gazing at the the scene from a distant window. He had seen his father wearing similar robes all his life, a cape embellishing the outfit and a cane at his side. With his blond hair and the pallor of his face, he almost looked like a younger version of him. Once, he had dreamed of wearing the same attire, had admired father for it whenever he adorned such clothing, but now it only left a taste like ashes in his mouth.

He did not want to wear those clothes, not in these conditions, not to honour _him_.

And so, the host had arrived.

He had just entered the large entryway to find his mother and aunt greeting him at the door. As soon as the squeletical figure passed the entryway, all the nearest Death Eaters urgently bowed and scraped after him as he voicelessly made his way through the vestibule, only regarding those who had not given him proper welcome. Draco had walked with his father, joining his mother in her duties, and he could not help but notice the furtive glances others cast towards them, or how they otherwise seemed to discard their presence entirely, turning towards the Dark Lord to await further directives. 

His home was still theirs in name only.

The figure of a man emerged from the nearby stairs leading to the cellars; he recognised him for Peter Pettigrew. Draco knew very little of him, only that, in truth, and unlike all the stories his father had told him, he had been the one to betray the Potters to the Dark Lord, and had helped him return to power three years ago. Even now, the shrunken figure only evoked disgust in him, however.

As Draco followed into the great dining room, his heart seemed to sink into his stomach.

There was a corpse — no, a person. The shape of a woman, revolving almost languidly above the table. Instinctively, he cast glances about, as if staring at the stony faces of the other Death Eaters would bring any answers. Draco's eyes met his mother's, and he received a knowing look and an imperceptible shake of the head. 

Draco chanced a brief look at the figure. His heart was still beating frantically inside him. He had not gone downstairs during the day at all, he had let others roam the manor while he remained locked away in a room, and so he must have missed this one event. To his horror, he couldn't help but glance at the woman. His blood ran cold when he neared the seat which had been assigned to him weeks ago, for he was sitting almost directly above the levitating form. Draco sat, his mouth firmly shut. It was as if some sort of morbid instinct had seized him, and so he'd look, and the wretched proximity his seat gave him allowed him to take note of the gashes on her face and the seeping wounds she bore, the dirt and untidiness of her clothes and how oddly muggle-like they were. He could almost distinguish every thread of the attire she wore. Everywhere he looked, the woman seemed to be battered and hurt, and his heart continued to beat horribly inside him, his stomach clenching all the while as he failed to keep his eyes away. Though he tried to face only the table, he shuddered as he saw her figure reflected dimly upon its polished wooden surface. There was nowhere he could hide, nowhere to go to escape this sight. He could almost feel his hands trembling, and tightened them into a fist below the table. Was she going to remain like this for the entirety of the meeting? He couldn't help but wonder at the sight. it didn't matter whether his father had approved of this or not, their manor was no longer truly theirs, but just as he kept staring, a growing sense of dissonance seeped inside him. He had known his parents to be supporters of the Dark Lord forever, he had heard of countless tales. _Would have father really approved of this?_

Come to think of it, Draco realised he had never seen such a bruised and wounded person before.

The table continued to welcome more guests, until only a seat at the right of the Dark Lord remained empty as well as one facing him. Finally, Snape and a man called Yaxley emerged from the corridor and took their assigned seats. The meeting went on and Draco had so far been quite ignored, though his stomach had remained clenched tightly and his hands were still balled into fists against his lap. He was only half paying attention at the political discussion happening, and all of them revolved around Potter. Whenever he'd hear his name, a curious sensation joined the clenching of his stomach; he hadn't thought of him in weeks, and when he peered inside him, once again all he could feel was the absence of animosity, the absence of this constant pulsating need to be better, to come out on top, to receive the attention he had always felt he was due.

Everything had went as well as could have been expected, until— His father's name was called.

Though his eyes remained firmly set on the table and the blurred reflection, Draco could sense the intensity of all the stares pressed against them for almost every Death Eaters round the table had curved their head to openly look at the show, and already dread descended on Draco at what was to come. 

"My—My Lord?" His father's voice was hoarse and croaked and apprehension layered his tone, filling his voice with tension.

"Your wand, Lucius, I require your wand."

The voice had spoken in its usual clear timbre, and yet the calmness of it had felt more threatening and commanding than if he had shouted. 

Because Draco was farthest from Voldemort he dared a peek at his father; the colour had gone from his face, his wish to refuse yet his inability to do so were barely concealed.

The Dark Lord rose from his seat, and it seemed Draco's blood only froze further inside him, though that mustn't have been the case because of the wild pounding of his heart. Just as Voldemort walked unhurriedly to him and his family, Draco's eyes fell to his lap and he stared at his robes as intently as possible, praying away the moment.

He heard the rustling of robes coming from behind him. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, Draco caught sight of his mother's hand pressed against his father's underneath the table. The gesture had been quite brief, and just a second later she had released her hold, and his father was fumbling for his wand in its sheath before handing it to the Dark Lord. 

The voice at Draco's back spoke, "What is it?"

"Elm, My Lord," his father whispered his answer as if straining to get it out. 

"And the core?"

"Dragon—" he stated, clearing his throat, "Dragon heartstring."

"That will do." And again, Draco heard the rustling of robes behind him. Still from the corner of his eyes, he saw his father make an odd gesture he failed to initially interpret. 

"My wand, Lucious? Give you _my_ wand?"

Draco remained perfectly still as he heard snickers rise from the table. Humiliation coursed through his shoulders and spine like needles puncturing his skin. He did not experience any sliver of relief once he heard more rustling and saw the Dark Lord's figure reappear in his field of vision and rejoining his seat, indicating he was no longer at his back. 

"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you?" The voice spoke with just enough condescension and was layered with malice, and that malice was like poison in Draco's ears. "But I have noticed that you and your family appear less than happy of late..." And now there was a hint of mockery added to the condescension. "What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

In the darkest corner of his mind, Draco thought he could have delivered quite the lengthy list, but he closed his mind and continued to remain immobile. 

"My Lord— Of course, nothing—" And yet the panic in his answer spoke in his stead.

"Such _lies_, Lucius..."

And for once, Draco felt grateful to Bellatrix. Of course with such panic his father's mind had been like an open book laid against the table's surface. 

Though whatever relief he gleaned from his feeling of safety evaporated as a desperate shriek resounded from below the room. Draco knew of _that_ particular event and knew whom this voice belonged to. The wand maker had 'inhabited' their cellar for over a fortnight, now. Draco still remembered the very first time he had entered his shop, and the moment of elation when his own wand had chosen him, and finally he had been on his way to become an accomplished wizard, his father's pride, ready to become the man he had wanted him to be. He'd have never believed that same wandmaker would one day come to be stowed away in his cellar as a prisoner unfed and mistreated. And now, his father had lost his wand as well, and there was very little chance of it returning to him. The Dark Lord's eyes turned to Pettigrew sitting at the table, and the red of his eyes caught the fireplace's flames and they now gleamed menacingly. Draco could only bear to stare for more than an instant. Pettigrew seemed to have understood the warning and scrambled off his seat and out of the room.

The state Draco had been in the moment he had stepped into the room returned to him as if it had never truly left, just as Voldemort's gaze returned to his father. 

"Now, why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot?" His voice dripped with venom, every words was accentuated with a blend of derision and disdain, it seemed he already knew the answers and only relished in tormenting him and his parents for his personal enjoyment. "Is my rise to power not the very thing they claimed to desire through all these years? Have they not preached they only ever wished to serve me, and join me in my new order?"

Draco had indeed heard little else throughout his childhood. He had reminisced on these stories often, as of late, of their significance to him and their impact on him. His father had spoken long to him of a time long before the International Statute of Secrecy, where wizards need not hide away and conceal their existence, where they need not be hunted off and murdered because of their magical powers, and how with the Dark Lord's return, at last muggles would be returned to their proper place, and the wizarding world be as it was before. And blindly, Draco had swallowed them all just for a chance to be close to his father. 

Nothing he had heard coincided with reality. The Dark Lord was nothing his father had promised and all three of them felt the sting of it.

"Of course, My Lord. We did desire it—" and his voice betrayed a terrible alarm before he corrected himself. "We do." 

Because his mother accompanied his father's words with a nod, Draco himself attempted to look directly towards the Dark Lord... and failed. He managed no more than a furtive look, one he immediately regretted before setting to stare at his lap again. He began fearing retribution for his lack of appropriate response, but instead of the high, clear voice he expected, someone much closer to him spoke instead: "My Lord," it was Bellatrix, and unlike his father, her voice was not laden with fear, but instead spoke of emotions Draco had not suspected his aunt had until the moment the Dark Lord had designated their home as his headquarters. Revulsion trickled through him as she spoke. " We are honoured to have you here, in our family's house," that she had called it 'our' family had made his skin crawl. "There can be no greater pleasure."

The Dark Lord observed her. Draco had had difficulty reading any expressions painted over the death-like pallor of his face, but he was almost sure he was now regarding Bellatrix pensively, and yet, it felt as though something was pending ominously. Once again, he remained perfectly immobile as he waited.

"That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you."

He'd have almost questioned what he had just heard had it not been for a growing sense of foreboding.

"My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!" Bellatrix had almost turned giddy with excitement. Again, revulsion seeped through him.

"No greater pleasure...", he repeated, "Even with the happy event, which I hear, has taken place in your family just this week?"

Though Draco could not quite make out his aunt's face for she was sitting farther away from him, at his mother's left side and she had been staring directly at Voldemort, she did not voice an answer at once, as she usually would have.

"My Lord? I do not know what you mean."

"I speak of your niece, Bellatrix, and yours, Lucius and Narcissa," Voldemort nodded at his parents, "She has just married the warewolf, Remus Lupin," the shadow of a smirk curled his lipless mouth. "You must be so proud."

And again, he felt daggers puncturing his skin and and making their way down his spine as all around the table burst out laughing, sneering and jeering openly at him and his family, exchanging malignant glances with each other as if they were sharing an amusing jest. Draco tried to keep his eyes so firmly fixated against his lap, unblinking, that his eyes began to prickle and water. Bellatrix at their side shrieked her defence, a note of betrayal apparent in her voice, but Draco cared not for her allegedly wounded feelings, he wanted nothing more but to get up and leave the room, to hex every single one of the Death Eaters around the table for unabashedly going along with this jape, he wanted to yell at his father for allowing all this to pass in the first place, for joining the Death Eaters, for filling his head with all these tales, he wanted to— 

"What say you, Draco? Will you watch over their cubs?"

Everyone roared louder with laughter. Despite himself, he cast a hopeless, imploring look at his father, who did not return it and was himself staring at his own lap, so his gaze traveled automatically to meet his mother's, who signaled at him with an imperceptible shake of her head to remain silent, to do nothing, to wait it out. And so, this time, he stared at the wall far ahead; he did not want to resemble his father, not like this, not anymore, let him stare at his lap. Draco held his head as high as he possibly could without drawing attention to himself, without giving anyone else another cause to laugh at them further, and he resumed his impassible staring.

Draco had never met this cousin, he had only heard of her as a traitor to her own blood, as someone who had been cast out of the family and denied, his mother had only ever briefly mentioned her in passing, and his father had spoken of her for her quality of being an auror and an enemy to _their_ rule. In truth, to Draco she was just that, a relative he did not know. As for Lupin, he remembered him well from Hogwarts, and yet his vision had been coloured by his eagerness to receive all the attention Potter had been hogging, as usual, and so as he thought of the man, he struggled to regurgitate any coherent thought, any solid fact from which he could form an opinion.

Just when he thought the situation could not worsen, a shrill hissing sound resounded inside the room accompanied by the heavy sounds of something slipping against the floor, and moments later, the great snake, Nagini, came to coil around its master, its thick length splayed over the seat and head turned towards the Death Eaters on the table. It flicked its tongue, no doubt tasting the air, and Draco shuddered.

"... We shall cut away the vermin that contaminates the purity of our bloodline, until only the worthy remain."

In the commotion, Draco had momentarily forgotten about the floating woman above him, until Voldemort flicked his father's wand, pointing it at the woman's form, and she immediately gasped awake, her eyes flapping open and horror apparent on her features.

"Do you recognise our guest, Severus?"

His old professor nodded his reply.

"And do you, Draco?"

Draco had not expected to be called out once again so he simply, voicelessly shook his head. His eyes traveled from the witch to Voldemort, all his senses in alert, as again, he sensed that something else was coming. The Dark Lord begun his introduction and explanation; Draco had never met this particular professor for she had been teaching Muggle studies, a class he had obviously never followed... He could not tell whether he might have, one day, grown curious over the subject, as his father would have scandalously put an end to such thoughts. Such as it was, he had grown the way his father had always wished him to; he had learned to arbor all those that were not _their_ kind. Tension around the table grew, and yet Draco had forgotten why he had despised Muggle-borns for all his life. 

As the Dark Lord spoke, many Death Eaters eyed the witch struggling above with revulsion, one spat on their floor, a gesture Draco almost flinched at. They all reviled the vision she had been sharing at school, they all reviled the pacifism she expressed, and when Voldemort spoke of her tribute to Muggles published in the_ Daily Prophet_, their faces contorted with outrage and loathing. Draco should have felt exactly as they did, his blood should have boiled with the hatred his parents had tried to instill in him all his life— But there was only a growing sense of terror inside him, a surge of pity for the witch who called out Snape's name, pleading in a voice which broke against him like a whiplash. 

Though his face was almost like wax, what features Voldemort had had twisted in impossible scorn as he glared at the witch, and with a brusque gesture, the wand waved; "_Avada Kedavra_."

Draco's eyes burned from the emerald flash and once the darkness had returned, the body collapsed from the air, like a puppet whose strings had been clipped, and onto the table in a resounding, sinister crash which cracked apart the table at its center. The scream he should have let out by all rights remained constricted inside him and choking him from the inside, his legs gave out from under him and all he knew then was his vision darkening and the image of the witch's broken corpse growing blurry and distant. 


End file.
